A friend’s trying to sneak past death.
He perches on one elbow
and offers up a smile I know
like my street, like my porch.
What’s a face but a pinch in clay,
a nose, lines radiating, a beard
or not, jowls or a taut, smooth
sweep from chin to neck,
eyebrow wisps or bushes or fair
invisibility, skin a shade dark
or pallid, a certain purse of lips,
and, lids descending, a trace of light
like lamps glowing through curtains
when I’ve come home late.
–
Michael Lauchlan has contributed to many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Sugar House Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore, Southern Poetry Review, and Poetry Ireland. His most recent collection is Trumbull Ave. (WSU Press, 2015).